Other Earths (15 page)

Margit wondered how long they had been sitting in the barn, surrounded by the smell of hay and horses. She thought there was only one horse in the barn—she could hear it stamping in a corner and occasionally banging its bucket against the far wall. But the sky was clouded, and moonlight came only occasionally through the barn door, which anyway was only half open. Judit would not allow them to open it further.

“I’m hungry,” said Deb’ra.

“Hush,” said Judit. “We have to stay quiet. Anyway, you ate the last sandwich hours ago.”

“How do you know it was hours?” asked Margit. “Can you see your watch?” It was so dark in the barn that she could barely see Judit’s face, or Deb’ra’s, scowling as though she were about to cry, or Magda’s, silly Magda’s, blowing spit bubbles that shimmered in the faint light. With her handkerchief, which smelled like cheese from the sandwiches, she wiped the trail of spit that ran down Magda’s chin. Thank goodness D’nes had fallen asleep on the straw. For a moment the moon escaped from the clouds, and she saw that he was sucking his thumb. Well, let him.

She felt a hand on her arm, and then Judit was pulling her away, saying, “Stay there, Deb’ra, and take care of Magda.”

“Listen,” said Judit. “We have to have a plan. Once Deb’ra gets really hungry, she won’t care how much noise she makes. She’s been that way since she was a baby. And what about D’nes when he wakes up? At least Magda will stay quiet as long as we tell her. But we need food too, Margit. I don’t know how far it is to the border, but when Father took us to Arad last year, it was more than an hour by train. We can’t walk if we’re hungry.”

“Can we ask the farmer for food? We could tell him we were on a trip with our parents and got lost. They’d have to feed us, wouldn’t they?”

“They wouldn’t have to do anything, not if they saw these on our clothes.” Even in the darkness, Margit could see the yellow stars sewn on Judit’s and Deb’ra’s dresses. “Why should they treat us any better than the people in Szeged?”

Margit understood the bitterness in Judit’s voice. The Lengyels had lived in one of the largest houses in Szeged. Next year, Judit was supposed to graduate from high school. She had been planning to study art in Budapest, and eventually in Paris. Margit had never understood why Judit had helped her that day in the schoolyard, when P’ter Nagy and his friend Tam’s had pushed her down on the pavement, shouting, “Hello, T̈nd’r! Let’s see if she has scales under her clothes.” She was two years younger than Judit, and her family lived in a small house on Boszork’ny street. Had lived, she corrected herself. But after Judit had pummeled the boys with her school bag, shouting, “Stop it, you idiots!” they had become friends.

“I don’t want to take care of Magda anymore,” said Deb’ra. “I want to come talk with you.” Her voice rose. “You never let me do anything!”

“Shut up, or I’ll make you!” said Judit. “Do you know what will happen if anyone finds out we’re here?”

Deb’ra started to cry. “I’m going to tell Papa that you were mean to me!”

“Oh, don’t, D’bora,” said Margit, but Judit said, “Let her. It’s more quiet than when she talks. Now, we have to get these things off our clothes. We should be able to cut them off with the pocket knife.”

“But won’t we get in trouble?” There had been so many ways to get in trouble, recently. First, they could not listen to the radio. Then, they could not ride in motor cars, and Mama had to walk all day to visit Aunt Ilona in the country. Then they could not play in the park, or watch movies at the cinema, and finally Margit had to stay home from school. Papa stayed home too, because he could not work at the newspaper. And finally all of them, all of the T̈nd’r in Szeged, even those who had brown hair and went to the Catholic church, had to move into the part of the city where Judit’s family had moved after the police took the big house on Gutenberg Street for their headquarters. Mr. Lengyel had asked them to move in, although there were already three families sharing the house. The police had marked down who was living there: Jews, Bolsheviks, T̈nd’r.

“Do you think we could be in any more trouble than we’re already in? We ran away from the police, Margit. If anyone finds out who we are, we’ll probably go to jail.”

The horse whinnied in the corner, and D’nes turned on the straw. Moonlight broke through the clouds again, and Margit saw with relief that Deb’ra had fallen asleep beside him. Magda was rocking back and forth, crooning quietly to herself.

“We could explain that we ran only because Papa told us to. It was so quick, with the police knocking on the door, and Papa telling Aunt Ilona to take us into the alley. We didn’t know what we were doing. If we tell them that we just want to be with our parents—”

“You idiot.” Judit’s words felt like a slap. “Don’t you understand that’s what your father was trying to prevent? The police were coming to take them away. They were coming to take everyone away. They’ve already done that in other towns. My father heard from the Rabbi.”

Papa and Mama taken away. “Where? Where would they take them?” Margit was crying now too, but silently, although she felt as though she were about to break apart. In a few moments, she would be lying in fragments on the barn floor.

“I don’t know,” said Judit. “Nowhere good.” Margit felt Judit’s arms around her, and she could not help letting out a sob so loud that it made Magda jump. “Remember what happened to your Aunt Ilona.”

Margit had been trying not to remember. She had been ahead of Judit, who had been carrying D’nes and leading Magda by the hem of her skirt. Aunt Ilona had been behind them. And then—a sound, like a loud crack. She had looked back to see Aunt Ilona lying on the stones that paved the alley, in a green puddle. Aunt Ilona had lived on a farm, and Margit remembered visiting with D’nes, feeding the chickens, eating apricots picked from the orchard, swimming in the river Tisza. But eventually Aunt Ilona had moved to Szeged, saying that the countryside had become too dangerous for T̈nd’r. She had brought Magda, a farmer’s daughter whose father had been afraid to keep her. That day, Margit had wanted to go back to where Aunt Ilona lay, but Judit had not let her. She had said, “Don’t stop, Margit. Go through the Szomorys’ garden. Hold Deb’ra’s hand, and don’t lose your school bag. It has all the food in it.

“No,” said Judit, “we’ll do what our fathers planned. We’ll cross the border to Romania and find my uncle in Arad. As soon as it’s light enough to see, we can walk across the field and into the forest. The border is to the west, so we’ll just keep walking toward where the sun sets. It’s too bad the map and the compass were in the other bag. If only I knew how far it was!”

“What about food?” asked Margit. She was not going to remember the green puddle. She was going to be practical, like Judit.

“We’ll have to steal it.”

“Hunh,” said Magda. “HunhHunhHunh!”

“Hush, Magdi,” said Margit, but then Judit put a hand on her arm again, as though to hush her too.

“Listen,” she said. “Do you hear it?”

The engine of a motor car. She could hear it, faintly at first and then louder. Then suddenly a sound as though the motor car were coughing, right in front of the barn. Then silence.

“Damn these country roads! Sergeant, you told us you could get us to the farm.”

“Yes, sir. But, sir, the roads do get like this. When it rains, sir, and it’s been raining heavily—”

“And while we sit here, stuck in mud, the children are escaping.”

Margit felt Judit’s hand clasp hers, hard. She wanted to tell Judit that her fingers were aching, but she was too frightened to make a sound.

“So sorry, sir. I’ll go to the farmhouse and wake the farmer. He’ll be able to tell us if he’s seen anyone.”

“Is it time for breakfast?” asked Deb’ra. She sat up in the straw and looked around, as though expecting to see her bedroom on Gutenberg street. When she saw D’nes lying beside her and the horse champing at the edge of his bucket, she cried, “Papa!”

A voice outside said, “Did you hear that, sir?”

“Come on,” whispered Judit. She let go of Margit’s hand and pulled Deb’ra up from the straw. “There’s a door in the back, I saw it when we came in. We’ll have to go out that way.”

Margit shook D’nes. “Wake up! It’s time to wake up.” He opened his eyes and looked at her the way he did when he was going to open his mouth and wail. “But you have to be very quiet, because we’re going on an adventure. We’re Imre and Fair Ilona, and we’re taking the children of the T̈nd’r to the mountains. We can’t let the Turks hear us, or they’ll capture us again. Do you understand?”

He nodded, got to his feet, and took her hand. She held the other hand out to Magda, who was always happy to follow wherever she was led.

The back door opened with a creak as Judit pushed it, and they emerged into the night. The moon shone over the fields, alternately veiled and unveiled by clouds. They waded through barley, which scratched Margit’s knees so that she wished she were wearing pants. They went quickly, as quickly as they could, but there was a sea of barley ahead of them and already they were faltering, because oh, how tired they were, thought Margit, dropping D’nes’ hand for a moment to scratch her itching knees. And every step seemed more difficult, pulling D’nes and Magda, both of whom lagged behind, until she felt as though she were carrying them. And D’nes was about to cry, she knew it.

She looked behind them. The barn was already filled with light, and a voice cried, “Sir, I found a handkerchief!” Which meant the voices knew they were here, and they would be caught, and their blood would form puddles among the stalks of barley. If I really were Fair Ilona, she thought, I would make the barley grow so that the Turks could not find me. But that’s only a story.

“Margit,” said Judit ahead of her. Even Judit was moving slowly, carrying Deb’ra, who was whimpering and refusing to walk. “What’s that in the trees?”

There was a light among the trees at the edge of the forest. Not like the light of a lantern, but pale and still.

And then, although a dog began barking behind them, which meant that the farmer was awake, Margit stopped and stood among the barley, thinking to herself, can it be true? But D’nes said, “Look, it’s the White Stag.”

He shone like the moon, and he stamped his hoof on the ground as though telling them to hurry.

“I’m Imre, and the White Stag has come to save me from the Turks!” Now D’nes was dragging her forward, and all of them were running, with a breath they did not know they had. And then the forest was all around. They were following the glimmer of the stag through the trees, while the barking of the dog faded away behind them.

 

“Look,” said Mrs. Mad’r. “You can see the moon.”

“I haven’t heard that story,” said Csilla. “Is it true?”

Mrs. Mad’r stared at the sliver of moon, pale against the darkening sky. “Judit was my best friend.”

“Were you Margit? I mean, are you Margit?” Mrs. Mad’r nodded. “Well, what happened? What happened to Judit and the children?”

Mrs. Mad’r sighed. “Judit stayed in Romania and was sent to prison—this was many years later—because her art was considered subversive. Deb’ra went to Israel with her uncle. She studied economics—but I have not heard from her in years. I was sent to Switzerland with D’nes and Magda, where other children of the T̈nd’r were sent as refugees. Magda is still there, in a good home. After the war, D’nes and I were brought to America. He went to a university and became a history professor. It was his idea to bring as many of the T̈nd’r here as we could, from the countries where they are oppressed and imprisoned. It was also his idea that your father should write a book. He’s the one who will be handling the petition to have you declared a political refugee. But you’ll hear more about that soon. We’re almost there.”

“And—” Csilla hesitated. “Did you really see the White Stag?”

“It was long ago,” said Mrs. Mad’r. “I’m not sure I really remember. But D’nes has always believed that we did.”

 

The first person she saw in the clearing was Anne Martin.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you’re doing better,” said Mrs. Martin, clasping her hands in front of her. “Helga didn’t realize. I mean, most of you aren’t so affected by metal anymore. My husband had some Fairy in him, on his mother’s side, and he could eat with a knife and fork, just like ordinary folks. You wouldn’t even have known it, except he had hazel eyes. Such beautiful eyes! He died a couple of years ago, of lung cancer. No one knew about cigarettes when we were growing up. That’s why I do this, you know. For him and for Susanna. She’s so proud of her heritage! Really, I’m just a librarian. And of course Mrs. Mad’r is so persuasive. I mean the queen. Although she never lets us call her that, outside of the forest.”

Mrs. Mad’r looked like a queen, standing in the middle of the clearing. Someone had put a crown of ivy on her head. I could be Princess Erzs’bet in the forest, thought Csilla. Except that the man talking to Mrs. Mad’r was wearing overalls, and the people standing and talking to each other, or sitting on the stones that ringed the clearing, looked ordinary, like people she might meet in a grocery store. But one boy who was building the fire had green in his brown curls, and a girl in a school uniform looked at her with eyes as green as a cat’s.

“Are they all—T̈nd’r?” It felt strange, speaking English, and Csilla could not use the English word, as Mrs. Martin had done.

“Or related to the T̈nd’r, though not by blood. Like me to my Henry.”

“Csilla, can I speak with you for a moment?” Mrs. Mad’r was standing beside her.

Mrs. Martin tactfully withdrew to speak to the girl in the school uniform. Csilla wondered if that was Susanna Martin. They were about the same age, although Csilla wondered why anyone would mistake Susanna’s picture for hers. They didn’t look that much alike. But perhaps they would be friends?

“This is my brother, Professor Kert’sz.” He didn’t look like Csilla’s idea of a professor. Her father had always worn a jacket and tie, even to the grocery store. This man’s overalls had grass stains on the knees.